Malpravus lifted off the ground, gliding, his own hands springing to life in a mirror image of Larana’s, golden-green coruscating on one, glowing black crackling around the other. “A brilliant deception, really. I never would have guessed him capable of it, but that was another of his little games, I suppose. To think that he did not know that you were hiding before him all the while …”
“Oh, Goddess,” Vara murmured, breaking her silence at last, transfixed upon Larana, her eyes wide with awe. “It’s you. It’s … it’s really … you.”
“It is me,” Larana said, but as Cyrus stared at her, the Larana that he had known since he had come to this place seemed to fade before his eyes; not an illusion, but something else. There was more of what he had seen from her earlier, in Aloakna—the confidence, the straightness in her bearing, the strength that he had thought endowed by Philos, still gripped in her hands, spell-light burning around it stronger than anything he’d seen from anyone other than Curatio. Her eyes, though, were locked on him, a dazzling green and pained, watching him in fear. Even through her youthful appearance—so much younger than she should have been—now it was obvious, and he recognized her at last, as he had known her … as he had last seen her, before she had left him, some twenty-odd years earlier.
“It is you, indeed,” Malpravus spat, hatred lining his words.
“Quinneria.”
79.
The fight had begun before Cyrus even realized it, and without him even knowing what had started it. Before he even had a full accounting of what was happening, Menlos Irontooth’s wolves set upon Vara and she met one of them with a sword stroke that cleaved one cleanly in half, the top portion flung out the nearest balcony and over the edge while the other two snarled and snapped their teeth, dragging at her arm and her leg. Menlos himself screamed in fury and came at her with his short sword while she was distracted with his animals.
Vaste now joined the fray, his spear held aloft as he plunged toward Menlos from behind, but still several feet away; J’anda had his staff in the air and it glowed, purple light streaking toward Erith, who stood staring, her eyes aglow with magic. Scuddar was attacking Sareea Scyros and she was attacking back, her hand glowing black as she cast a spell and Scuddar’s scimitar and hand alight with some magic of their own as he struck Sareea’s sword, seemingly unmoved by whatever she had cast.
The fight in the middle of the room had divided Cyrus from Vara, the spellcraft of his mother—whom he could scarcely believe was there, standing in front of him—matched against Malpravus. It was a blur of color, a glow of horrible magical power, their spells clashing and forcing Cyrus back from the pure energy blasting between them. His mother looked like a fury unleashed, more power pouring off her than he could ever recall seeing from Curatio, and Malpravus matching it, his lips drawn back in an angry rictus, his dark magics surging forward as Cyrus moved aside—
He nearly had his head struck from his shoulders as Rhane Ermoc surged toward him, Praelior in hand. The warrior came at him hard, but the hearth exploded in a timely blast of fire, distracting Ermoc just enough to send him charging past Cyrus, the heat bellowing out of the fireplace strong enough that Cyrus could feel it on his cheeks as he grasped for Rodanthar and drew his sword at last.
He saw Ryin surging forward, spell-light in his own hands, fire burning forth and consuming Mathyas Tarreau, the human completely enveloped by the druid’s blossoming fire spell. Tarreau was gone in an instant, but the flames lingered, casting shadows in the chaotic tower as the air was rent by the frenzied heretical magics being flung about around them. The whole tower shook, and Cyrus saw the contest between his mother and Malpravus explode skyward, ripping an immense hole in the ceiling—
“You can’t evade me!” Ermoc screamed over the magical release behind him. He came back again at Cyrus, who was dazed by the sheer overload of activity around them. Cyrus offered a half-hearted defense against Ermoc, barely turning him aside, but Ermoc’s own anger and overzealous attack cost him far more than Cyrus’s defense. He stumbled, but Cyrus was in no position to exploit the mistake; his stance was weak, and he had been caught off balance in his last-ditch attempt to defend himself.
J’anda stepped forth and turned loose a blast of magic all his own toward Malpravus, who was still standing out on the balcony, strangely untouched by the rain hammering down around him. It was as though the magic being flung from his bony fingers was evaporating all the liquid before it touched the ground. Magic streamed from his spell-lit hands like smoke from a fire, colored faintly in the same green-gold and near black as his spells, still pouring out at Quinneria, who continued to match him with her own, their powers pooling and wrestling with each other in a miasma of colors in the center of the room.
Cyrus caught a glimpse of Vara cutting another wolf down, stabbing with her sword while Vaste was sparring with Menlos, barely keeping the Northman, his face red with anger, at bay with his staff-turned-spear. Vaste’s own face was a deep shade of green, Cyrus saw between the flashes of the magical bout occurring in the center of the room.
Ryin stepped up next to J’anda and poured a fire spell in next to J’anda’s casting; they seemed to run together, twisting with Quinneria’s own contribution to the fight, and pushing the magical maelstrom closer to Malpravus. Cyrus blinked away from it, scarcely believing what he was seeing. That’s … that’s not how magic works, is it?
Well … it’s how Curatio did it in the Citadel …
Ermoc’s scream of rage brought Cyrus back to himself in time for the warrior’s next attack. Cyrus was staggering, so rattled about by the fighting around him, by the thoughts in his head that he could not get a full grasp of what he was doing nor what he was supposed to be doing. Ermoc came in low with his attack and Praelior clanged against the lower part of Cyrus’s breastplate, making him grunt from the impact, like a weak punch to the stomach. It caught him by surprise, but by pure reflex he reached out with a riposte of his own, catching Ermoc squarely in the mouth with the tip of his sword.
Ermoc squealed and spun away, trying to drag Praelior with him, away from where he’d just clashed with Cyrus. Cyrus fumbled with his free hand but grasped Ermoc’s wrist with clumsy fingers and yanked, causing the Goliath warrior to extend his arm farther than it was meant to go. His weight warred against his own shoulder, and Ermoc yelped in pain as his bones cracked and he began to fall. His fingers let loose of the blade—
Cyrus let go of Ermoc’s hand … and caught Praelior’s grip in his fingers.
The feeling was immediate and fierce, like a sudden splash of water to the face on a hot, lethargic day. The world spun down even slower, the magical battle before him turning into a contest of light, pulses of energy running out of the hands of all the combatants, meeting in the center in an ever-expanding emanation of spells that was now throwing off its own blasts in seemingly random directions. One streaked across the wall behind Ermoc and left a black, burnt scorch mark as it blasted a balcony door to pieces. Mendicant had joined the fray, pouring his own spells into the fracas, but Cyrus could see no advantage being had by any side, just a steadily worsening storm of magic that seemed to be eating the roof of the Tower of the Guildmaster whole as its fury blew skyward.
Through it all, Cyrus saw Vara run her sword through Menlos Irontooth’s chest once, then again, tearing through the Northman’s leather armor, dark liquid rolling down his bearded chin as he slumped, just before Vaste plunged his own spear through the warrior’s guts. There were no more wolves moving over there, just the healer and the paladin, finishing their task as the roiling torrent of magic crackled beside them.
Cyrus turned to see Ermoc scrambling away from him, holding his shoulder at a pained angle, his lips split from nose to chin and blood pouring out like magic from Quinneria’s fingers. The Goliath warrior ducked a surge of magical energy and hid himself behind Malpravus’s billowing cloak as the energy seemed to begin turning against him, the overwhelming power directed toward the necromancer apparentl
y too much for even him to handle.
A scream drew Cyrus’s attention toward Scuddar, who held out a hand and sent Sareea flying as though he’d just cast a force blast spell. This one was different, however, with no shuddering effect to the air around her. Sareea disappeared in the twinkle of her return spell as she passed through the balcony doors, apparently removing herself from the battle.
Malpravus locked eyes, covetous and angry, with Cyrus through the currents of magic eddying around him, and then the necromancer disappeared in his own return spell, dragging Rhane Ermoc unwittingly with him as Ermoc hurled himself upon the dark elf at the last moment.
Unblocked any longer by Malpravus, the magical pool of light that had been gathering in the center of the Tower shuddered once and then blasted through the space where the necromancer had been standing, then faded as the casters let their spells die one by one, Mendicant being the last to quit.
There was silence for a moment once it was finished. J’anda leaned upon his staff, the purple glow still alive on the orb, his breathing loud and labored. Rain began to pound down through the immense hole in the roof; the battle of magics had left less than half the tower’s ceiling in place, and the storm outside was raging still, lightning flashing above them.
“Heinous shits,” Vaste said, leaning on his own spear, looking right at Quinneria in their midst. She hovered above the ground a foot or so, staring at the place where Malpravus had been. “It’s really you.”
“It really is,” Quinneria said, and when she spoke, Cyrus recognized her voice. It was not the muted, hushed whisper of the druid she had pretended to be for so long, and she carried none of the age he would have expected from her. She looked younger than he did, but he knew it was her nonetheless.
“Amazing,” Mendicant whispered as the sky outside rumbled with a hard peal of thunder. The smell of burnt ash was in the air, and a piece of the tower’s roof came fluttering down like parchment. “The sorceress has been among us all this time …”
“The guild,” Cyrus said, coming back to himself at last. Even with both Praelior and Rodanthar in hand, he felt as though he could scarcely think quickly enough. The world was moving slowly, painfully slowly; Ryin, too, was eyeing Quinneria warily, and Scuddar had come back to the center of the room, his scimitar dark with navy blood along the edge, the sword still held lightly in his grasp, ready to be employed if needed.
“They are safe,” Quinneria said quietly, still staring after Malpravus. “I killed the Goliath invaders when I returned and saw them teleporting in. Still … there were probably some losses; I did not check any other floors before coming straight here.”
“We need to …” Cyrus lost his voice; it left him as surely as anything—anyone—had left him before.
“Yes,” Vara said, taking up for him, her forehead smeared with red. “We need to go floor by floor, ensuring that Sanctuary is clear of any remaining—”
“It is,” Ryin said quietly, and nodded at the hearth, which was burning normally. The torches, too, had returned to their normal levels. “Or so says Sanctuary itself.”
“Still,” Vaste said, straightening up to hold himself awkwardly, “perhaps … perhaps we should do a search, floor by floor. Make certain that we deal with any stragglers. Resurrect any of the fallen. And, uh, get the hell out of here before Arkaria’s most awkward conversation, possibly ever, occurs.” He fled toward the stairs, not once looking back.
“I … am with you on that,” Ryin said. Scuddar followed after looking curiously at Cyrus and receiving a nod. With that, the desert man seemed to recuse himself, leaving at once.
“What would you like me to do with her?” J’anda asked, brandishing his staff.
Cyrus blinked, and realized that Erith was standing beside him, her eyes still glazed, clearly under the influence of the enchanter. “I …”
“Put her in the dungeon,” Vara said sharply. “Under guard and cessation. We will deal with the traitor on the morrow … in the manner her crime demands.”
“I will watch over her myself,” J’anda said with a grim nod of the head. He took a fortifying breath and marched away toward the stairs, leading Erith with his staff almost poking her in the back. She walked without will, without resistance, and Cyrus watched her go with a trace of regret and little more.
“The sorceress …” Mendicant whispered, still looking up at Quinneria in awe, rain washing down on the goblin. He did not seem to notice the drenching he was receiving, too busy was he looking up at her with something akin to worship in his eyes.
“Mendicant,” Vara said quietly, “would you mind terribly leaving us be?” She spoke into the storm that broke through around the shattered tower, pouring in through the open doors and shattered roof, like emotions daring to rush into Cyrus—
Except … he did not feel anything. There was faintest hint of an emotion, like a trace of something he’d known once, but it was more akin to shock, than anything else. He simply stared at the sorceress Quinneria and dimly wondered if perhaps he was gaping like Mendicant.
“Oh …” the goblin said, stirred by Vara’s words. “Of … course,” he said, not sounding entirely like himself. He loped along toward the stairs, though, and disappeared down them a moment later. Cyrus listened, but did not hear the door shut. Part of him wondered if it had survived the battle and all the endless parade that had come before.
Quinneria floated down to the ground, her robes parting enough that he could see her bare feet touch the stone soundlessly as the wind roared around them. The rain was tapering, but the thunder continued, a flash of light followed by the deep rumble some seconds later. So it was when she spoke; he heard her, but the meaning only came after an interval of time. “So … I suppose you have questions.”
Cyrus felt parched, as though he’d not had anything to drink in a year. He licked his lips; they felt chapped, cracked. He took a breath and it hung in his chest, ached inside him where Ermoc had slapped his breastplate into his belly. He clutched the two swords, one in each hand, but said nothing.
“I see you found your father’s sword,” Quinneria said at last. “I left it for you. I was wondering if you were ever going to check your scabbard.”
“I …” Cyrus said, dimly, blinking, the vision before him clearly not right. He could see Vara beyond Quinneria’s shoulder, staring back at him in silent support, her wet golden hair once more streaked with red from battle, and he had a moment’s remembrance for what they had been doing, the small intimacy shared before Malpravus and his cohorts had appeared.
“Say something,” Vara urged him quietly, her voice almost lost to the wind. “Cyrus …”
Cyrus looked upon Quinneria with faint disbelief. Before him stood a woman that he had thought he had known, that he had steadfastly ignored, and hidden beneath her veneer all this while had been something he never would have believed. It came rushing in on him all at once, the realization that this was her, that the meat pies she had fixed him always, since the day he had arrived, were the ones she had fixed when he was a child, and that the way she looked at him—that everyone always swore was love—actually was. It was her love for him as she watched over him, that her fear when he was injured or died was a mother’s fear … that she had been here all along, had been with him, within feet of him … and had never said a single word to make him wiser.
It all hit him at once, like the largest war hammer dropped upon his head, and he felt it in a rush, every emotion across the spectrum, and it threatened to choke him as he spoke at last. “Hello …” he whispered, and she looked at him with those green eyes, the ones he had never once recognized until now, “… Mother.”
80.
“I should start,” Quinneria said, standing in the middle of the Tower of the Guildmaster, rain pouring down through the immense hole in the roof beside her, the tapping of water on stone almost as loud as the occasional cracks of thunder rumbling outside, “by saying I’m sorry.”
Cyrus stood there, the fire in the h
earth behind him casting warmth upon his back, the chill of the wind seeping in through the cracks in his armor and over his drenched underclothes. The two extremes battled for a moment before warmth won out in the form of a crackling fire in his belly that burst out of him in long peals of laughter that doubled him over. He laughed long and loud, amazed at the absurdity of her statement. She watched him until he settled, the mirth fleeing with its warmth and allowing the cold its victory. “You’re … sorry?”
“I am,” she said, bowing her head, the familiar mannerisms of Larana the near-invisible druid returning.
“For what?” Cyrus asked, causing her to lift her head in surprise. Vara, too, looked surprised from her place opposite him, Quinneria between them. “For … abandoning me?” That one struck true, and Quinneria bowed her head again. “For letting me be raised by animals?” He nodded at the corpse of one of Menlos Irontooth’s wolves, lying close by its finished master. “For letting me forget what sleeping in a warm bed, safe and sound, felt like? For having others teach me, in most dramatic terms, what it was like to fear for your life every single day of it?” He chuckled under his breath, but it was a cold and crackling sound, all warmth gone. “Sorry for that?”
“I am … so sorry … for all of that … and so much more,” she said, looking up at him with those green eyes, the ones that had feared to meet his for so long.
“How did you survive?” Cyrus asked then stopped himself, slamming Rodanthar into his scabbard. “Never mind. Alaric. Like Malpravus said, just another secret.” He looked hard at his mother. “I guess the question is … how did you pull it over on Pretnam Urides?”
“It wasn’t easy,” she said faintly.
“But it was necessary, I assume?” Cyrus stared right at her. “I mean, I presume it was, unless you just … didn’t want to be a mother anymore—”
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 47
